Number the Stars
by sylphides
Summary: Mostly following DH, but with a couple changes. After the Final Battle, Hermione stumbles across someone and shares some insight... Runner-up for The New Library Award's best DHr Hurt/Comfort.
1. Number the Stars

Disclaimer: Not. Mine.

Warning: Some religious and contemplative themes.

_Ouch._

For the first few moments of consciousness, amidst the whirling and throbbing pain, _ouch _is all my tired mind can come up with. So much for the English language.

Then the memories pounce on me and the shock pushes the almost unbearable ache away in favor of panic. The battle! The Dark Lord, the Death Eaters attacking en masse, the Order facing them defiantly, the many different colored lights of hexes and jinxes and curses, everyone especially avoiding the sickly green light if at all possible…

What happened?

I can't get up, I know that much. Judging from the sharp protests of an abused body, I've broken my leg and I probably have a minor concussion since everything seems hazily surreal. My eyes feel gritty, and the fact that its night and that I'm flat on my back staring at the obscenely serene moon doesn't help me discern my location or the outcome of the Final Battle at all.

Well, no use trying to do anything for the moment. I can't be too far off from Hogwarts, and someone—friend or foe, who knows?—will find me soon enough. The last thing I remember is sending a _stupefy_ back at the idiot who wanted to curse me.

So I wait.

And wait. The moon gets higher. Then it sinks lower. There's Sirius, the dog star. Ugh, Sirius. Don't think about that. Mercury, pretty bright tonight. So are Castor and Pollux, and Bellatrix over there—no, don't think about that either! I wonder if she's dead. What's wrong with pureblooded families and their naming kids after stars and constellations? And why can't I find mine?

Finally, just as I am about to resort to numbering the stars one by one, I hear something.

Someone, actually. A female, muttering expletives, the likes of which I thought only muggle sailors and bartenders knew. I'm appreciative, but right now I'd rather either be killed and put out of the misery of a pounding migraine and throbbing leg by a foe, or healed up and sent to bed with a pat on my back by a friend. And I'd like to know my fate now.

"Hello? Who's that?"

There's a startled silence, and then the female voice, one I know very well. "_Malfoy?" _A face, surrounded by that distinct hair, fills my vision and blocks out the stars, the constellations, and the moon.

I blink. "Granger?"

Before I can say anything else, she sighs and kneels down beside me in a business-like manner. Wait, what is she doing? I panic.

Oops, must have said that out loud. She's looking at me a little crossly. "I'm checking to see what injuries you have, you bloody fool. Why are you out here? The last I saw you, you were appealing to some Death Eater inside Hogwarts."

"Well excuse me if I prefer living to dying, whether or not it's at the hands of your Order or the Death Eaters! He was pretty intent on killing me, and I somehow was _missing _my _wand _if you remember! Potter _took _it!"

"Shut up, Malfoy. You have a broken leg, some minor cuts and scrapes, and you probably have a concussion as well."

"I could have told you that."

_"What did I say?"_

"All right Granger, don't get your knickers in a twist."

She splutters and glares at me. Yes, her eyes are definitely much better to look at than the stars. Easier to count too. One, two. Wait, what am I thinking? I really better get my head looked at, it's not a minor concussion I have, it's a whopper if its got me thinking about comparing Granger's eyes to the stars! "I'm guessing since you're very remarkably alive, that the Dark Lord is dead and your Potter has won the war."

She stands up, carefully avoiding my eyes. "Yes, your brilliant deduction skills are correct. We've won." She doesn't give me a chance to retort.

"Hey, wha-" I feel my body whoosh up, and I can't move!

Hermione's voice, from behind. "I'm levitating you to the hospital wing, and I froze you so that you don't injure yourself further. You're a prat, but you're not about to get worse on _my _watch. Plus, your parents are worried about you."

My parents? Despite the fact that I can't move, I feel the urge to stiffen. "Are they…"

"They are both unharmed and whole, except for minor bruises and cuts. Your father is under Auror custody, along with the other captured Death Eaters, but they haven't taken him to Azkaban yet. Your mother has been released under twenty-four hour watch, because she helped Harry. Both of them refuse to leave until you have been found."

_My _mother helped _Potter? _I'm going to have to hear that story from her firsthand. We're approaching hospital wing much faster than I thought. Hermione is a really fast walker. Wait, when did she become Hermione and not Granger?

I clear my throat. Oh boy, these words are sure going to hurt. "Th-thanks Granger. I wouldn't have thought you'd have, um, helped me out, you know?"

_Plonk. _I'm on a bed, still frozen in place. Poppy's suddenly there, thrusting potions at me and I am once again shocked by the no nonsense manner of the Hogwarts mediwitch as she fixes me up and orders me to take the potions and rest as if I were still a little boy, untainted by death and the war. Especially after sixth year. _Professor Snape…_he's most likely dead. He protected me from so much, even myself. He knew he had no chance of surviving the Final Battle. I hope he died easily, and has a happier afterlife than this existence has been.

I'm drifting off to sleep when I hear her, her words floating softly to my tired ears. I had thought she had left without answering.

"You made some bad mistakes—we all do. You just had tons of pressure on your back to make it, and an entire lifetime of prejudice to support it. But your parents still love you, even if you or they committed crimes, and everyone deserves to live a normal life, with a family and love."

I open my eyes, and am abruptly caught in her gaze. _Yes, they really are better than stars. _"I don't know if a normal life is going to happen for us, Granger."

"Well at least now you have a chance to try, don't you?" She turns, moves towards the door. Just before she exits, she looks back. "My mother used to say that there is a God who determines the number of the stars, and calls them each by name, and if he knows such intricate details, well then he probably has a number and name for each of us humans too."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I am no more important than you are. Neither are you more significant than me. We're like stars to God. A name, a number. One star's death is just as mourned as another's."

I am too tired to understand it, and Hermione seems to understand. She smiles wanly, and leaves.

But when I fall into blessed sleep, my dreams are full of stars, and Hermione's eyes smiling at me as I slowly number each star in the night sky.

A/N: Yeah, you all know what I'm going to say- review, guys! Pretty please... :) The "number the stars" thing is from a children's book by Lois Lowry about the Holocaust, which I thought was an appropriate parallel with all the blood prejudices going on in HP. The quote about God determining the number of the stars and calling them by name is actually straight from the Bible, Psalms 147, and it's meant to remind humanity that he knows each and every person on earth intimately, just like he knows and can distinguish each and every star in the sky.


	2. Stardust and Diamonds

I am so tired, so tired. I move slowly in every task. But don't we all? The war is over, it is true. We have won. There is peace, a great and terrible peace. It almost seems like the peace we fought so bitterly for, sacrificed so many lives for, mocks us now. _Try living in peace without those who have fallen, _it whispers gleefully.

Time passes—how long, I cannot fathom. Time seems irrelevant now. Day, night, day again, they all blend into a seamless and singular purpose: _Breathe. Just breathe…_

The questions threaten to stop my breath at times, and I must remember often just how to unlock my lungs and let in precious life, a few sips of air at a time. _Was it worth it, _and _What are you doing wasting time when there are so many things to do _and _Why am I still alive _mingle with the alien presence of _Breathe. _

I do not think of anything at all, as much as I can. To think of victory means I must think of Harry's explosive final confrontation with evil incarnate. This in turn brings me to Severus Snape, a truly confusing individual—yet Harry, for all his old hate, seems just as much as any of us to be unable to hate anymore. To hate means to feel emotion, to let in the raw pain of just _feeling. _So we live in the physical world, _ feeling _the sore muscles and headaches and exhaustion from a solid day of rebuilding our school rather than the absolute grief and devastation. And these emotions in turn remind me of so many other things, so many other points of more emotions, that I wonder how I lived before the Final Battle, steeped so in such—_feeling. _

_Knock, knock. _The door. I open it gently. A spark of –something- surprise maybe? It seems such a foreign electricity in my blood, something new after weeks of stagnancy. He stands there, recovered finally. He looks just as tired as I am.

"Hello."

I try to grasp why he is here, at my door. "Hello, Malfoy. Did you need something?"

He shakes his head. "No, I…" a pause. "I noticed that you don't seem to be doing well for a while now. I wanted to see if…if you were okay."

I stare. The alien _aliveness _of my sluggish blood increases. Desperately I suppress the forbidden _feeling. _No use. It has been so long since any pair of questioning eyes appealed for more than comfort, or reassurance. Harry and Ron themselves are spread so thin, and yet Draco's grey eyes ask for more than surface comfort. He's asking for the state of my _soul. _It's enough, that _look _in his eyes, to dissolve my barriers.

His face is a study of dismay and unusual clumsiness as I crumple, my emotions finally pouring out. "Hey, hey, Granger! Um, come on. Come on." My fragmented thoughts, rational bits of light tossed far and wide on the raging flood, recognizes that I should be in disbelief that _Malfoy _is leading me to my bed, rubbing my back.

"Shh, shh…just cry. You're allowed to be sad, Hermione. Life is supposed to be like that. You can't live without feeling those things, so just let it go…"

He keeps murmuring. I don't know what he's saying anymore, only that he's holding me, wrapping his arms around my frail body, and it is all I can do to just hang on to him as I am battered by each new emotion. And then he's singing, children's songs, nursery rhymes, some I know and some I don't.

"Twinkle twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are…"

Ridiculously, after time has passed—once again unmeasured and unnoticed—something flashes into my brain, a wisp of something I read in a science textbook a long time ago, so long ago it feels like centuries.

"I read somewhere, some time ago, that everything on earth, including people, are literally made of stardust." He is startled at my sudden remark, voice hoarse and nose stuffed from sobs.

"How is that possible? Stars are pieces of rock, non-sentient."

I smile at that, amused for the first time in a long while. "We really need to implement muggle scientific discoveries into magic education. Stars are formed by the condensing and collapsing of a cloud, which heats up enough to glow, and then generate it's own energy. The center is where it happens, and it's called the protostar. When it generates it's own energy, it's called nuclear fusion, and then planets eventually form within the influence of the star as well…"

I realize that I am digressing, but Draco is smiling, a genuine grin and teasing glint to his saving eyes. _Draco? Have I decided that he is now simply Draco, and not Malfoy Brat Extraordinaire anymore?_

"Well. Um. Anyway, the stare isn't just a rock. But when the universe began, it had the right conditions to make the first stars, and they eventually exploded and scattered the elements within their interior across the universe. Those elements became new elements with each succeeding supernova, and finally became the elements that went into building our planet, then our plants and animals, and finally, us. So yes, every inch of us comes from the inside of several stars…"

He is bemused, wondering why I mentioned it in the first place. I wonder why too.

"I don't know why I said that. It just…" I trail off, but he jumps in.

"Hermione,"- _Hermione? When did he start calling me Hermione, and not Granger? Are we friends now?- _"I've never really thought about it that way. Magical kids grow up not really knowing these facts and theories. But it's a beautiful idea, that we all come from the inside of a star. Sure reminds you that if you could come from such a beautiful thing, we must be worth something, don't you think?"

His sincere words (and only a month ago, sincere would mean as little as a snake's promise to be docile to prey during feeding time) trickle through my consciousness. _If we could come from such a beautiful thing, we must be worth something_. Worth. A pure virtue, unsullied by the red-tinged fog of the war, a star's worth is suddenly, casually, bestowed on me. _I am _worth _something. _It's a small realization, compared to previous flashes of insight from my previous life, uncovering Horcruxes, defeating grown men and Dark Lords, but it's _mine. _My own discovery, to keep and nurture, one that inflicts no danger or harm on others.

"Thank you."

I don't know if two words are enough to express my new found emotions. It seems so hard to compress all that gratefulness, all that feeling, into two squished words. But…

Perhaps it is the look in my own eyes. Perhaps it is that I impulsively burrow deeper into the curve of his relaxed arm. Perhaps it is something else, an inexplicable hiss of nuclear fusion between our two souls. But he seems to understand what cannot be stuffed into my stilted thanks.

It doesn't matter that we were the enemy. That he would have killed Dumbledore if he had been just a little more brave. That his father is in Azkaban, his mother under house arrest, and his own trial is pending. Nor does it matter that my best friends put his father in Azkaban, or that my own muggle parents still live in Australia with no memory of their daughter.

All that matters is that, somehow in this wide wide universe, enough elements from the stardust of supernovas collected to form two human beings, and by the virtue of that alone, we have worth. We are worth any star in the sky that gently observes our ravaged world, and it is enough.

_"Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky, twinkle twinkle little star…" _

A.N: "Breathe. Just breathe" is actually not mine, it's from the movie "Ever After." This one's in Hermione's POV, obviously. The things Hermione mentions, about the birth of stars and us being stardust, that's all oversimplified but true. :) It's a pretty neat idea, to think that we're all from the inside of an average of about 5-6 stars...R&R please!


	3. Starlight, Star bright

Perhaps we are friends. I don't know. We do not actively seek each other out, nor have we talked much at all beyond enquiries to our health. But we greet each other with an extra smile. I was there in the background when she brought her newly restored parents, still bewildered, to graduation—held anyway, even with the absence of over half the class during seventh year. _Everyone in their seventh year deserves their graduation, and the War—whether they actively participated or sought safety, has taught the children true wisdom. They don't need an extra year of mere academia. _McGonagall was firm, and so we graduated in a formal ceremony.

And she was there, a quiet support for me, at my trial.

The trial. I only remember scattered pieces. But I do remember that the numbness receded a little and released its siege on my frightened tongue when she caught my eyes with her own.

Later, I will remember the absolute disbelief when I heard my sentence: a fine, and an Auror monitoring my movements for the next five years. _That's it? I almost killed Dumbledore, _would _have killed Dumbledore, and I am free so easily?_

Tonight, I heard a soft, tentative _rap _on my door. She is there.

"Since it's your last night at Hogwarts…and you didn't get summarily thrown into Azkaban…would you like to celebrate?" She's holding a bottle of champagne—_a muggle beverage, but much preferred to the coarse fire whisky at the moment. _

She leads me outside, and across the grounds, to the Quidditch pitch. She spreads out a blanket, and hands me a glass.

"So, what are we doing?"

"We're stargazing."

I pour the champagne, take a sip. Alcohol's not really my forte, but this stuff tastes much better than any of the drinks I've snuck. Tilting my head up, I look at the sky. It's the same. The same canvas I watched in progression through the night, during the end of the Battle. Same stars, same planets. Same moon. Changes in the sky take much longer to appear, but when they do, they are explosive.

"Look, you see that bright stripe against all that darkness? We're looking at the Milky Way. That's the galaxy we live in. There's the North Star, it never changes where it is. But it's only temporary. In a couple thousand years, there will be a different star taking its place. And Cygnus the swan should be somewhere there, can you see it?"

Hermione's voice is pitched low, almost reverential, and as she recites different odd facts about the night sky and various stars, I am comforted. Some things never change. Like the North Star, Hermione will always be the same. Wiser, perhaps, and more compassionate—but what makes her _Hermione _has not changed, and unlike the North Star no one will replace her anytime soon.

I become aware of the stillness. It's a gentle one, a light silence that doesn't weigh us to the ground. Before I can even think, I hear myself murmuring the lines of an old rhyme Professor Snape once whispered to me, when I was a child and he was just my godfather and there was no death or family expectations or demanding masters.

"Starlight, star bright, let me make a wish tonight…"

She chimes in. "Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish-" I do not expect what comes next. Somehow, we are facing each other, and I am kissing her.

It isn't what you'd read in a romance novel. She tastes like alcohol, her lips are dry, and aren't girls supposed to close their eyes during kisses? But despite—or because of—her widened eyes firmly dwelling in mine, the kiss feels like—_heaven. _

More silence. This time, expectant, almost like a little child shifting from foot to foot, squirming in urgency for the bathroom. Then, so soft I can barely hear her, but _oh, her breath on my cheek! _she finishes, "have the wish I wish tonight."

And as we collide once more, I can almost swear on my life that all the stars in the world are gathered in our little corner of the world, watching us as we watched them not half an hour ago. But perhaps it is only Hermione's eyes.

---

A.N: Happy Thanksgiving!!


	4. Starry Starry Night

There's a brisk wind out today. Chilling, the kind that adds an extra spice to your step when you're out and about. It's not yet winter, but just past autumn, and it's my favorite time of the year.

I don't know why, really. The firm breeze, perhaps, that reminds me of my childhood fascination with Mary Poppins and flying via umbrellas. Or the coolness in the air that promises to gift me with soft, white snow in the future.

Maybe it's the season, the Christmassy spirit and the carols and fun. Even the anticipation of family gatherings and presents.

Or maybe it's because it was this exact weather that Draco and I had our quiet, unannounced wedding.

It's been years now. Years and years, and Harry still complains because he wasn't invited. Ron calls Draco the amazing bouncing ferret. Of course, Draco inevitably retorts back with either a snipe about slugs, or the largeness of the Weasley brood, which has extended now to include eight grandchildren for Molly and Arthur, with a ninth on the way courtesy of Ginny and Harry. Not that all eight are Ginny's. I'm sure Ron, Percy, and Bill would frown at that, since they have certainly contributed to the pool of grandchildren Molly contentedly oversees.

We all have our happily ever afters, even if it took a while for us to get there. And a lot of heartache as well.

I pad my way to the door, and peek out. Nope. Draco's not home yet.

I sigh. It's evening, and usually by this time we're both home from work and getting ready for dinner. It's our night out—Fridays.

I turn around, almost bump into our house-elf. "Oh, sorry Van Gogh. I didn't see you there."

The elf blushes. She's been with us since we got back from our honeymoon travel year in China and Mongolia, and she still isn't completely adjusted to my style of talking to her. "Van Gogh is sorry, Mistress Hermione, but she is also looking to see if Master Draco is coming home soon," she explains shyly.

"Ah, well, Draco will be home soon I'm sure," I smile down at Van Gogh—yes, Draco confided in me that his _female _elf is named for _the _Vincent Van Gogh, the depressed artist. As a consumer of the fine arts, he tells me, with his nose practically pointed to the ceiling, he particularly likes Van Gogh's style in his _Starry Night. _I smirk at that. It took me years to get over the fact that Draco Malfoy was a secret fan of the muggle artist who chopped off his own ear. Although I must admit, the way Draco fiddles around with his telescope some nights (one of his more quirky hobbies) I can't say I'm too surprised at his delight in the painting of the stars. He was equally delighted when I let him listen to the old song about the painting, _Starry Starry Night. _

"You see, Van Gogh has laid out Mistress Hermione's 'night out' clothes on the bed, and is wishing to know if Master Draco minds if Van Gogh picks out his clothes for tonight as well?"

"Thank you Van Gogh, you didn't have to do that," I say automatically like I do every week when Van Gogh insists on laying out my clothes for me on Fridays nights. "Since he's late, he doesn't get a say. Go ahead and pick something out that will match what I'm going to be wearing."

The elf squeals with pleasure and bounces off. I return to watching out the door, heedless of the cold draft.

Finally, just as the sun throws out it's last defiant rays over the horizon, red and gold—_Gryffindor colors, _I think with a slight mental giggle—I see him.

"Malfoy!"

"Mrs. Malfoy!"

I grimace, and allow him to sweep me into a dramatic and overblown kiss, the kind a blustering show off performs on stage, before swatting him. "What took you so long, idiot?"

He's aged well. I can't help but be appreciative. I'm his wife, I'm allowed!

"Um…work?"

"Nice try. You didn't call."

"I got caught up?"

"Really. And you didn't bother to remember your wife."

"I'm really sorry, and I don't deserve my beautiful darling wife!"

"I'll accept that apology—barely."

"I love you, Hermione."

"I love you too, ferret."

"Hey!"

"It's our night out. I let Van Gogh pick our your clothes."

"Oh no…"

"You were late. That's the penalty."

"The last time you let that blasted infernal house-elf pick out my clothes, I looked like old Bloody Baron on his pompous dress up days!"

"I wasn't aware the Bloody Baron had pompous days…besides, this time it's muggle clothing. We're going out to dinner at a nice restaurant my cousin recommended." I follow him upstairs and snatch up my dress, hurrying to the bathroom to change before he can protest.

But protest he does, despite the closed door. "Hey, you would think being married to you for fifteen bloody years would give me the right to see you change, aka naked!"

I stick my tongue out childishly at the very solid door between us. "If you can keep me waiting for an hour after you're supposed to be home, I can keep you in suspense about what I'm wearing—and what's underneath it—for ten bloody minutes, Draco Malfoy!"

It doesn't shut him up. The entire time I'm changing, he keeps muttering. It makes me laugh.

I finally step out. It's a new dress, bought with my husband in mind. Dark dark, almost violent blue silk, it isn't quite revealing but it certainly isn't a dress for a prude either!

And the diamond, the beautiful teardrop of a jewel sparkles like a star that fell out of the night sky, shines all the more pure on my hand as the only jewelry I will wear tonight, because I want it to be noticed—that symbol of a promised eternal love between us.

He stops muttering, abruptly. "Hermione…you look…" A long pause, and I take the time to admire the fine job Van Gogh did in picking out that well-cut grey suit on his body. _Hm, blue and grey. Van Gogh is sure living up to his namesake, with those colors just like the painting and the song. _ "You look like the night sky, only better," he finally breathes.

"Thank you. From such an avid stargazer, that's the best compliment you could have given me."

"Merlin, it's too bad we decided not to have children. With your good looks and mine combined, they'd have dazzled the world!"

The fallback into humor, again. I shake my head. "Oh Malfoy, I'll take that as a compliment. Even with you sneaking in an egotistical boost to your own vanity."

---------

The rest of the night can only be truly divine-inspired. Some Friday nights are funny, some end in quarrels, some are unmemorable or excruciatingly painful if we choose the wrong thing to do. But this night, this night will be in my memory forever.

It is almost as if we are courting again, back when we were both uncertain and wary of other people's opinions. No, not the uncertain part. The joy. The unexpected discovery of something new about each other, the wine-drenched laughter, the glorious giddiness that is not entirely attributed to alcohol, but to each other's mere company.

And the sky! The stars, not covered by any pollution tonight, the friendly constellations, the familiar names. The sky is an explosion of soundless wonder, practically dancing with the brilliance of the stars filling it. As we walk slowly up the walkway towards our door, I can't keep my eyes off of the splendor of it all, and in the back of my head the lyrics drift hauntingly. _Starry starry night, paint your palette blue and grey…with eyes that know the darkness in my soul…_

"Isn't it just gorgeous?"

"Yes, it is." Draco is very soft, and I reluctantly tilt my head back down to the earth—and realize that my stargazer isn't looking at the stars, he's looking at _me. _"Draco?"

What he says next takes my breath quite completely away. "Who needs stars when I have this-" he catches hold of my hand, the symbol of our promise to love and be loved glittering in fierce competition with its sisters in the sky. "Hermione, I'm so glad you're mine, and that this ring proves it!"

Not particularly eloquent, not a profession of deep undying love, but it's so _Draco _and so full of rough emotion that I blink, and realize that he's made me cry. "I love you, Draco." Somehow, we've come to a full stop outside our door, and his arms are around me in an old familiar gesture, echoing memories of back to just after the war, before we became what we are today. _They would not listen, they did not know how…perhaps they'll listen now. Starry starry night…"_

I glance up one last time at the night sky-somehow less bright than my own slice of heaven on my on finger, and holding me tight at the moment—and whisper to Draco, "Look. There's your constellation! Draco, the dragon who guards the golden apples…"

Draco wraps his arms more securely around me, and looks up briefly as well. "You know, the night of the Final Battle, before you found me, I was searching for it? I found Bellatrix, I found Sirius, heck, I even found Andromeda, but for the life of me I couldn't find my own constellation."

"Well maybe you were a little distracted by the pain and uncertainty of the final outcome…"

"Maybe it was because I needed you to find me before I could find myself."

Somehow I know he's not talking about a faraway star or constellation.

I sigh contentedly, happy to remain in his embrace forever. "Let's go inside and go to bed, Draco. The stars will be there tomorrow night, and the night after…"

He nods, and unlocks the door. But in bed, with the warm dark and Draco wrapped around me, just before I slip into unconsciousness, I hear him murmur right next to my ear. "Who needs a starry night when I have my own stars right here in your eyes?"

_Finite Incantatum_

A.N.: All right, well I'm done! I think I've just about exhausted all I know about the topic of stars and philosophical discussions. :) I've had a great time writing this, and I thank every single person who has reviewed—you've been such an encouragement! Most specifically, thanks to Isadora120, who first encouraged me to expand my oneshot, and kept on reviewing! But to the rest of you reviewers, thanks to you as well.

Hope you all have a star-filled night! ;)

So, I'm hoping that everyone knows who Vincent Van Gogh is, the famous artist who is thought to have suffered fits of depression and cut off his own ear at one point. He painted this beautiful piece titled 'Starry Night.' And there's actually a song about it, and about Vincent Van Gogh. I think the song is called 'Vincent,' but it's more commonly known as 'Starry Starry Night.' It's a good song.


End file.
